


A Glass of Wine

by fierysuzaku



Series: A Toast to Good Company [1]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling, FACE Family, M/M, Nostalgia, Poetry, Romance, childhood fruk, slightly historical
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-24
Updated: 2015-01-24
Packaged: 2018-03-08 21:09:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3223508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fierysuzaku/pseuds/fierysuzaku
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>France indulges in his nostalgia along with a bit of wine and contemplates the centuries that passed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Glass of Wine

He’s in quite a mood tonight. He can feel the familiar pin pricks of nostalgia pervading upon his consciousness as he takes a sip of the fragrant burgundy.

_Magnifique!_

The bittersweet tang of finely aged wine bleeds through his senses. The scent. The taste. The all too familiar laxness burrowing into bones as he all but melts into the couch – pajama bottoms and all.

He is comfy.

Cozy.

Warm.

Feeling oddly poetic.

_All the more fuel to make the fire of nostalgia burn._

 

_Amongst the gray fog he will wait_

_Full of emerald fire with a glow so faint_

_Held by brambles and rocks so sharp_

_His voice echoes with enmity like a broken harp_

 

His memory sings of untamed lands and marsh.

Bright feral eyes of youth snarling and hissing like an angry wildcat, his strange tone drips with unintelligible words of what he can only assume to be dislike.

_“Who are you?” Gaul asks, his blue eyes never daring to stray. The eyes shine through the mist, curious and suspicious. He dares to take a slow cautious step further into the coiling gray of shadows and greens, the child backs away bristling in turn._

_“I mean no harm!” he calls out only to receive a low warning growl as twin fires throw him a baleful glare. His voice snarls – far too small to be a sign of any harm._

At least, that was he thought at first. Scrawny. Short. His head akin to a nest full of leaves and twigs. His eyebrows, _very_ heavily defined.

Little did he know of the chaos that wild child will bring upon the world – it was rather unnerving to be honest, for such a small thing to grow so big.

_“You don't belong here!” the strange child says, surprising Gaul of his clarity for Gaul does not speak this land's language._

**_So how_ ** _, he wonders only to realize why._

 **_A nation, just like me_ ** _, he realizes, now, full of awe and wonderment. He rarely accompanies Rome on his journeys across the waters – preferring to listen to the romanticized tales of wilderness and savagery (a woman with eyes as green and feral as the child before him... clashing swords and angry sneers as her long braided hair whip around like a vicious snake with each flurried strike of her spear) – he was happy that he did._

_He looks up, suddenly realizing his wandering thoughts only to his disappointment, find the strange nation gone._

They met again, under Rome’s house and rule –the child more sullen than angry. More bitter than feral. Different in a certain sense, but still very much recognizable. A bit taller. More flesh on the bones. Unusually _silent_. Eyes still bright green yet less of the burning fire he saw on that one foggy day when he ventured briefly out of Rome’s sight.

He no longer hears the stories of the wild woman with green eyes.

The years pass and shift, they grow and change.  They acquaint themselves with each other to the point of eerie familiarity.

Promises.

Broken promises.

Rarely kept ones.

Their dynamic becomes ever so confusing and connected.

Until this day, he continues to insist.

_I regret nothing._

 

_Gone was the light once bright_

_Squashed and trampled by hate and fright_

_Bitter seeds the once pure heart now dark had sown_

_Crushed away by a creature of mint and magic blown_

 

Eyes half-lid immersing in centuries old memories of Gaul and Albion, he takes time to follow the strands of the past, deeply meshed and twisted by age.

He hates feeling so old.

He hates how reminiscent he becomes on such unexpected times.

He hates how he never seems to be able to fully let go of the past despite the passing centuries.

But then again, the act is a commonality among their kind.

_Like Angleterre’s magical friends, for example._

England is a child of magic and it will be a very cold day in Hell if he ever decides to renounce their existence. In fact, it is ever clear that those creatures hold a special place in the island nation’s heart – perhaps the only place left within him that is untouched and child-like.

France still has the Sight and he _knows_. He still sees the glowing lights fluttering about England’s land and how the nation is almost always accompanied by a flying mint-colored rabbit if he is home.

 _He always had a thing for rabbits_ , he muses, recalling at the images of a smiling child surrounded by lights and glitter. His lips curl into a small smile when the memory lingers on the day Albion met his first rabbit. It was the first time he saw the child genuinely smile for something so non-magical.

He should have known to treasure such things. For such smiles are long gone.

_“You are awfully quiet, Albion,” he observes, fully expecting – at the very least – a bristling retort only to meet still cold silence in turn._

He frowns, the wistful smile now gone. He remembers that night all too well. Rome carrying a bleeding Albion after the child nation ran away _again_. He recalls the thundering beats of his heart, afraid for the unconscious boy.

_“Get some clean water and bandages,” Rome orders them (Hispania and he) as he places Albion on the bed. They quickly scurry away, fearful of Rome’s stern tone and dark look._

One always knows when the Roman Empire was angry.

Not the type to keep emotions at bay. Always loud, expressive and rude.

It is when he is _quiet_ that one should worry, for there is nothing more frightening than a brooding empire waiting to explode.

_His usual grinning features gone, his dark brows furrow while his lips thin with unspoken emotions. Albion’s eyes flutter open, his lets out a loud grating gasp and a cough so strong his small frame shakes._

_“Leave us!” Rome barks, dismissing them with a stern glare as he shut the door behind them._

To this day, France still doesn’t know what _exactly_ happened. Only _inklings_ , never the full story. It was only centuries later that England _hinted_ that it was a family matter and he shouldn’t bother with such things for the British Isles are actually getting along nowadays– if you call constant jibes and wrestling matches ‘getting along’.

_“Gaul, do you fear death?” Albion asks, startling him. It’s been more than a week since Albion spoke to him. His voice detached and cold, his gaze straying into some far away land – it made him uncomfortable._

_“W-What? W-Why would you ask such a thing?”_

_“Why should I not?” he quips with one thick brow arching in question. “Are you not curious?”_

**_Because it is horribly morbid of you and no, I am not curious_ ** _, he wants to say but refrains._

Death is a rather uncomfortable topic for young nations. They inherently know they cannot die so easily, but they have no desire or curiosity to experience it.

_“It was horribly painful you know, dying I mean,” Albion confesses, a sliver of vulnerability appears only to be hidden away by the slight tilt of the head and haughty demeanor._

_He pales at the admission, “y-you mean, Rome –”_

_“Rome? Ha!” Albion scoffs, “I wish,” he whispers more to himself as he shifts his gaze towards the distance only to narrow and darken with such bitter **hate**._

It took a long time for England to regain his usual vocal attitude. However, instead of finding new ways of crossing the wall, he was usually found venturing into the deep forests and never returning for days on end.

Rome was unusually lenient with those little adventures unlike in the past where England was all but shackled to the room to prevent him from escaping and joining his savage brothers.

_“Leave him be,” Rome says as he spies his worried gaze._

_“He will come back when he is ready,” he adds and Gaul only nods, curious of Albion’s new found freedom._

_One day he decides to follow him. Into the deep dark woods full of mist and shadows, he hides behind a thick tree full of moss and age. He gasps at the sight before him– hundreds of lights swirling about, along with the sound of laughter._

_It was **him** , dancing with bright green eyes and **happy**. _

**_Actually_ ** _happy._

 **_How long has it been since I saw him smile? How long has it been since we actually talked? How long –_ ** _he asks himself so many questions only to feel his chest burn as a heavy weight settles at the pit of his stomach when he fails to recall any recent date of it._

_He turns back, leaving Albion with his fae._

The next day, when Albion returned, he forcibly shoved food down his throat and told him to eat because he looks like a walking stick. Albion growled and he growled back.

It erupted into a wrestling match and ended in bruises.

The laughter and the teasing came later.

 _Much_ later.

_“Gaul… going to the woods for a few days… want to come?”_

 

 

_Amongst the lands and riches be_

_He grew and grew but never free_

_Caged by shackles none could see_

_Only to be freed by the songs of the sea_

 

He cannot deny that every nation has had their moments of arrogance and conceit. _They_ cannot deny that. Even the _young_ ones cannot deny that.

But their arrogance today is _nothing_ compared to that of the past. Europe is a prime model of it. They were powerful immortals with heady influence at the mere touch of their finger tips. Worshipped and prayed upon like living deities. 

_It does not take a genius to figure out that such monotony brews of idle and strange thoughts._

On England’s case, it was him leaving his unsuspecting Welsh brother in charge to go on gallivanting on pirate ships stealing gold and leaving a trail of broken hearts (human and nations alike) with each passing port.

He is no fool. He does not call the man the ‘Erotic Ambassador’ for nothing.

He reveled in his freedom. He thrived in the chaos. For the first time in a long time, he allowed the shackles of nationhood to break as he fell head long into the red abyss of lust and adventure.

 _It was just the world needed, rampant teenage nations,_ he snorts recalling how it was not only England alone that fell prey to the beckoning sounds of freedom. There was Spain. Prussia. Portugal. Almost everyone decided to take a _little_ break from nationhood.

_“You were all a bunch of self-entitled dicks.”_

As America so eloquently puts it.

_The pot calling the kettle black, are we not Amerique?_

The glass clinks. The wine pours. He cannot help but note how much redder real blood truly is. Wine looks far too thin and feels far too cold to be blood. It does not cake and flake. Nor does it burrow under your nails and cling to your skin after a long hard battle. It does not linger for centuries on end, no matter how many baths, lotions and soaps one uses – the scalding thick sticky feeling of it in your hands remains.

Wine _stains_.

Blood.

Blood _taints_.   

He holds his hand up against the fire and wonders if his fellow nations feel it too.

_He finds him. Away from the clanging chaos of battle. Away from the pained cries of their men. Away from the river of blood painting the deck dark._

_In a different time and era, he would have deigned a greeting. His fingers curl upon the sword hilt as he rushed for the attack taking in the nation’s unprepared counter. His lips curl his teeth bared and sharp as he drives into the weak defense._

_“How like you, to be so defenseless, **mon lapin**.”_

_England snarls –full of indignation and bite. The sight delights him as he presses the blade further against his enemy’s blade._

_“Come now, no one likes a poor loser. Just admit it and accept you fate as French territory,” he croons, his voice soft and sweet with a hint of reprimand._

Oh, how those emerald fires **_burned_**.

_Of course, in his brief distracted observation, England manages to get a better grip and push him back. But not before gracing him with a butt to the head._

And practically _everyone_ knows just how hard-headed the little island nation can be.

 _I still have the bumps to prove it_ , he chuckled in momentary amusement.

_He lets out a groan of pain, momentarily blinded as the smaller nation takes advantage delivering a swift kick to the side sending him breathless._

_He hears his ribs creak and crack. England wastes no time and tackles him reversing their positions._

_“The **Hell** I will. But perhaps **you** will become English territory for me, Frog,” England whispers breathy and rough against his ear, he gasps when long rough fingers wraps around his throat. Their eyes meet – too close, too intimate – and for a moment he lost himself in the swirl of emeralds and gold. _

_“Yield.”_

_He grins and rasps._

_“Never.”_

 

_Bit by bit did the ice slowly melt_

_Emotions once foreign now eagerly felt_

_Only to be crushed by harsh destiny_

_Gone again the light till perhaps, infinity_

 

He was never the same after Elizabeth. When his beloved queen died, his grief was so palpable even from across _La Manche_.

He grew more isolate and taciturn as the days passed.

 **_Never_ ** _a good sign when it comes to him._

It didn’t help matters when he was to serve a _Scottish_ king in her place. He even demonstrated his displeasure by taking up piracy once more.

_“Fitting, is it not? I took the seas for her and I return to it for her.”_

The king welcomed it – allowing him to take his grief to the seas instead of the delicacies of court politics.

It took a few years before anyone realized that he truly meant to give up his nation and people.

The very thought of England fading into the waves like foam makes his heart twist.

It took a navy and a year’s worth of searching before the British brothers managed to drag him back to English soil.

_But perhaps his greatest hurt came from Alfred._

Not America. Not the nation. But the boy who smelled of sunshine and wheat. The boy who smiles so bright and hugs so tight your ribs threaten to crack. Yes, _that_ boy.

_“Why are **you** here?” violet eyes narrow in suspicion as he gives the young colony a small smile._

_“A visit,” he explains making the boy frown and glare. He quickly notes how similar Matthieu can be to Arthur when angered or offended. They sport they same glare and distinctive scowl._

_“That look does not fit you, **mon petit** ,” he chides hoping to lighten up the mood. _

_“Why are you here France?” he speaks as cold venom drips, “have you and America not done enough? The revolution was won, now leave him be!”_

_France tries coaxing once more, and to his surprise, the colony refuses to budge._

_“ **No.** ”_

_“I’m not going to hurt him, Matthieu.”_

_The child **scoffs**._

_“Of course not, you already did!” he barks as he slams the door to his former guardian’s face leaving him in the cold._

 

_Yet he grew still ever ruthless and cold_

_The sun never setting, the stories told_

_All harshness and angles, softness gone_

_So much damage, they remained undone_

 

_“It is not like you to be so lost in thought, Amerique,” he says, watching the blue eyes brighten with alertness, no longer fogged and muddled by unspoken brooding._

_“Is something wrong?” his brows furrow with worry, as the usually talkative nation kept_ mum _._

_“They won’t talk to me. Mattie won’t even let me near him anymore. Arthur doesn’t even bother showing his face,” he admits as his eyes darken with memories of harsh rejection._

_“Aren’t you trading now?” he asks, confused how Arthur managed to keep his distance from the young nation._

He expected a lot of bristling from England’s end. Harsh words and sharp glares. Never cold indifference. Especially with a child he had held so dear, but then again…

 _Is it not whom we love the most who are the hardest to forgive?_ he thinks, briefly going back deeper into the past when England spoke those three words to him.

_“I hate you.”_

_“Good, I hate you too.”_

That fateful event sparked a litany of wars, betrayal and tears. Scars and blood. Victory and sacrifice. History has marked them. Conjoined their destinies into one strange tapestry of alliance and animosity.

For they are England and France.

It is written upon their lands and their people.

They fight together and against each other.

 _Entente Cordiale._ A Cordial Agreement.

_“I’m trading with the **British** Empire. I’m more likely to see all three of them together than him. They don’t like me either,” Alfred frowns, dejection clear upon his features. He reaches out, gently patting the boy’s back as Alfred chokes out a sob clearly near his limit of holding his emotions in._

_“They said I went too far,” his jaw tightens as his hands curl into tight balls on his lap._

_“I hardly think Arthur’s brothers are the best source considering how their relations are with him,” he scoffs and frowns, “Hush… hush, I am sure England with come to terms with your separation from him. You will grow and he will learn and move on. Take it from me, that little rabbit will come around,” he assures, gathering the upset boy in his arms allowing him to take shelter, away from politics and conflict, it is just him and Alfred._

_After their moment of comforting silence, he speaks._

_“Do you regret it? Fighting for your independence.”_

_“What! No! Of course not, it’s just that –”_

_“Then, there’s your answer. I’ll be blunt Alfred. Relationships are never solid. Our kind does not have that luxury. Enemies today allies tomorrow, it is hard but we must learn to accept how fickle humans can be.”_

Yes, the life of a nation is both beautiful and cruel. They will have the luxury of seeing their people rise and improve. Weather out the harshest storms, stomp out the wildest of fires. They get to see humanity’s highest moments as well as its lowest and most cruel.

_“Mattie called me **America**. He **never** –” _

_“Alfred.”_

_“I just want my brother back, Francis. I. want. him. back.”_

_“And you **will**. Listen, you were both hurt during the war. You both bear wounds and scars. They may hurt **now** but they will heal. Just give it time.”_

_“And Arthur?”_

_“Only time will tell, mon petit. Only time…”_

He never had the heart to tell him that England had always been the most cruel and unforgiving when hurt. He knows where to punch, push and poke. Never enough to break, but just the right pressure and barb to make one’s heart clench and bleed.

 

_And one day his sleeping heart awoke_

_Beating, damaged and broke_

_Tears fell like steady streams_

_Eyes opened to the sight of moonbeams_

 

The World Wars changed them all. A change so sudden that everything went off kilter and continued spinning until every single one of them was on the floor confused and trying to figure out what in the world was happening.

Some were ripped apart, wounds corroding and marking through their flesh as they scream and beg for everything to stop. Some rose better than ever.

They remember the times when such things pumped more adrenaline and heat through them like nothing else. Now, now, war held nothing but nightmares and blood.

Bombs.

Trenches.

Camps.

Everything was chaos. He felt himself fall.

_Hard._

Trampled and broken underneath surrender and defeat.

His wounds bled and festered like a cancer spreading through his veins as his people fell back and hide.

_La Résistance française._

That was his only reminder that he was still fighting. He did not just lie down to lick Germany’s boots. He did not fully surrender. A part of him was still fighting.

Still _alive_.

_He wakes up bandaged and bruised. He could feel his infected wounds closing up and the bleeding stop. His blue eyes flicker open, gauging the scene before him._

**_Paris_ ** _._

_He was in his capital. **Another** contribution to his recovery. He takes one harrowing breath, the air felt different for some reason, lighter, fresher. _

_A ridiculous thought._

**_Maybe this is all a dream,_ ** _he concludes as he notices the flowers perched at bedside – red roses and white lilies. He **thinks**._

_His vision was still patchy and blurred, a lot things happened in those camps and he prefers not to delve further into those dark **dark** times._

_“You’re an idiot.”_

_It was a harsh rough whisper barely audible in his current state but despite that his body already reacts towards the other nation’s presence._

**_Angleterre_ ** _. He takes in the fellow nation, he looked unusually healthy. Bright green eyes, he was thinner sure, but he still had that posture of superiority and confidence France no longer has the energy to sport. He looked **well** , healing and fighting. _

_To be honest, he didn’t know if he should feel happiness or anger. Happy Britain is alive and well or angry because he is. It is so damning, how he, the one who gave up ended up worse than the one who struggled and fought through the bombs and rationing._

_“ **Don’t.** Stupid, Frog! Do you have any idea what you put us through?” displeasure vibrates through his frame as he continues to rant about his cowardice and inability to follow through the plan. “ **You** were to meet me in London. **You** were supposed to be there! You **told** me! You **promised** me! Dammit Francis I thought – _

**_He thought what?_ ** _he wonders as he took notice of the strange inflection and gasp that cut of the rest of the sentence. He looks **again** , a bit harder, a bit longer and **sees**. A tiny spark of vulnerability and worry, a bit of the edge and roughness pushed away for him to discover just how badly weakened and hurt England was.  _

**_I’m sorry._ **

_“No, don’t you dare give me that look. You are **not** sorry. You are **never** sorry. Just rest up, hopefully, you’ll recover better now that you’re here.” He bends down to fluff his pillows, France catches the bandaged chest and bruises. Now that he’s nearer he could make out the redness of his eyes and the gauntness of his pale features. _

England was not _well_.

_“I’m going out to run some errands, I’ll see you in a bit,” he says before grabbing his cane – grip firm and steady for support – and took leave._

It was just moments after Arthur returned with a bag of croissants did he notice that he never spoke a single word since he woke up and that England, proud haughty _England_ , spoke to him in prefect _French_.

 

 

_Dreams and reality mix_

_All knew there was no easy fix_

_None can tell how this story so strange will end_

_Yet for now, let us all wish for a happy finish and pretend._

 

The pen dips against the paper eliciting a crinkling sound along with the soft snaps and cracks of firewood, the ink stains its thin surface as he ended the verse. His lips move in silent whispers, mouthing the words as it rolls out upon his thoughts.

“Never thought of you to be so depressingly poetic, Frog.”

He starts and turns, meeting a pair of curious bright emeralds while he fights through the stutter that threatens to spill from his mouth.

“A-Ah, _mon lapin_. Home so early,” he grins, face flushed and warm, whether it’s from the wine or the mere prospect of his poetry being read without his notice by the very subject of it, he does not know.

“It’s almost midnight you dolt,” he points out while Francis casually steals a glance at the old grandfather clock at the corner. His eyes widen in realization.

_Mon Dieu._

“Oh my, I must have been too lost in thought to notice,” he laughs it off, gracefully evading the scrap of poetry held between the other nation’s clutches. How it got from his lap to its current destination is a mystery to him.

_The wine is getting to me._

“This is unusual of you, Frog. I expected you to be in bed, hogging all the blankets and leaving me to freeze my balls off,” he says crudely as he shook off his coat and scarf but still leaves the Frenchman with a few layers to undress.

“Honhonhon, I am flattered _mon lapin_ , you know me so well.”

A tie slips through his fingers as he playfully curls his arms around the other’s waist.

“You’re not spying on me, are you?” he teases, pulling Arthur closer making their eyes meet while their foreheads brush and their breaths mingle.

The belt buckle _chinks_.

“Please, you’re just horribly predictable,” he scoffs but he slips his arms around the other.

“Am I now?” he smiles – soft and gentle – and pulls away with the piece of wrinkled ink stained paper held between his fingers.

_Success!_

“We both know the real answer to that,” he snorts and moves in to grab some of Francis’ wine while he gives the Frenchman a long contemplating look.

_We aim to be predictably unpredictable._

Arthur sighs and takes a sip, “You worry too much sometimes”. 

“Maybe you’re rubbing off on my _rosbif_ ,” he teases making the other scoff and tell him not to think too much or his brain with fry.

“Oh? Yours must have been burnt into cinders then… just like everything you cook,” he counters, and Arthur smacks him lightly on the shoulder as he casts him an irritated glare.

“You’re pushing it, Francis.”

“ _Desole, mon coeur,_ old habits die hard,” he shrugs and takes the glass from Arthur and pours himself more wine but not before leaving a quick kiss upon the Englishman’s lips.

“True… but for the record, your story does have a better ending,” Arthur says as he holds up the paper, Francis reaches and Arthur steps back, pulling out a pen and scribbling on it before handing it back to him.

Francis reads.

His heart flutters and swells.

“Believe it or not, France, I did get my happy ending. And I am more than willing to go through the rest. Happy or otherwise,” Arthur whispers, his hand warm against his cheek as he sports those rare smiles of his before taking the glass and draining it dry.

“Now, I’m tired and we both need to sleep,” he declares and tugs at Francis’ sleeve.

“Bed, now.”

Francis smiles and follows.

The next day, he wakes up to read it again. Trace his fingers over the stains and marks of ink and smiles.

 

_Dreams and reality mix_

_All knew there was no easy fix_

_~~None can tell how this story so strange will end~~ _

_~~Yet for now, let us all wish for a happy finish and pretend.~~ _

_Yet this strange twisted story did end_

_A happy finish of love and cheer none can contend._

 

**-end-**

**Author's Note:**

> Comments would be lovely. ^_^


End file.
